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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302625">Stories About My Paladins</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax/pseuds/Syntax'>Syntax</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories About My D&amp;D Characters [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adopted Sibling Relationship, Anthology, Archaeology, Blood and Injury, Deals With Eldritch Beings, Demonic Possession, Do Good Recklessly, Ex-criminals, Families of Choice, Gen, Ghosts, Homebrew Content, Ice Cream, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Loneliness, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Faking Your Death, References to Prostitution, References to Torture, Rescue Missions, Resurrection, Trope Inversion, Unreliable Narrator, haunted armor, investigating your own murder, jail cell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:08:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax/pseuds/Syntax</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you create the perfect character and then can't find a game to play them in.  So naturally, the next best thing to do is write fanfiction about them.</p><p>Chapter 1: Arsène Cocodril, Aasimar Oath of Ancients Paladin<br/>Chapter 2: Warden Cainbreak, Half-Elf Oathbreaker Paladin<br/>Chapter 3: Nicodemus the Lost, Tiefling Oath of Redemption Paladin<br/>Chapter 4: "Stranger", Fallen Oath of Battle Paladin<br/>Chapter 5: Jebidiah Ironsides, Human Oath of Glory Paladin<br/>Chapter 6: Davenport Edelwald, Revenant Oath of Vengeance Paladin<br/>Chapter 7: Catalinas the Deft, Revenant/Ghost Paladin of Honor<br/>Chapter 8: Prince Nobody, Statuesque Oath of the Watchers Paladin</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Female Character &amp; Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories About My D&amp;D Characters [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Oath Of The Ancients</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was always a rush of smells when they stepped through the door.  Perfumes, mostly.  Exotic spices.  Exotic flowers.  A current of sweat usually ran underneath the stronger smells, just beaten down enough by the spices that it could be easily missed on a passing visit.  The smell of people ran under that one.  The smell of expensive furniture.  This time though, there was a different smell underneath it all that shouldn't have belonged, and that was what drew them here today.</p><p>The decorations inside were surprisingly well-made and tasteful.  Or perhaps not surprisingly at all, considering that establishments such as these were technically illegal.</p><p>"Hello," Arsène said as she stepped into the lobby, just loudly enough for the receptionist to hear.</p><p>"Howdy," her sister Mardi added, just as lackadaisical as always.</p><p>The half-orc at the front desk glanced up from his book for just a split second, then immediately shifted his attention when he realized what he was staring at.  People.  Customers, presumably.  A rarity at this point in the day, when everyone who had money to burn was either at work or at home and had no need to schedule an appointment yet.</p><p>Arsène shot a grin at the man, fully aware of how confused he probably was.  Not every day you see an aasimar and a lizardfolk walk into the same whorehouse.</p><p>"...Lookin' for somethin' specific, ma'am?" the receptionist said eventually.  He dogeared a page in his book as he spoke, sliding it further down the desk so that his full attention could be directed towards to the two women in front of him.  He was eyeing her especially; more specifically, eyeing her armor.</p><p>She heard Mardi make an annoyed clicking sound at his words and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  There goes the favorite joke.</p><p>"Y'Could say that," her sister said anyways, walking up to the reception desk.  She placed a scaled hand on the counter.  "Though we're gonna be needing your complete cooperation to find it."</p><p>The half-orc quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say any more as he looked between the two of them.  Arsène knew very well what he was seeing.</p><p>Herself, an aasimar in half-plate, deceptively human looking were it not for the flecks of gold glowing softly against her brown skin.  Mardi, less a of a lizard and more of an alligator, forgoing any armor at all in favor of her own hide and her own travelling clothes.  They were quite the pair, even if you didn't already know they were family.</p><p>Arsène could see the half-orc searching her for a banner or a holy symbol, something to figure out where to proceed from such a vague statement.  She tucked a steel-clad hand under her breastplate and pulled out an amulet.  Her family crest was painted proudly on one side, <em>sable</em> and <em>argent</em> and <em>or</em>.  She flipped it over.</p><p>The painted face of a woman with long red hair stared back at the receptionist.  His eyes widened.</p><p>Mardi grinned.  "See, we here with the <em>Empire's favorite lady</em> have a bit of a broader definition of 'protecting the weak and needy' than most folks do."</p><p>"Furthermore," Arsène added, tucking her amulet back into her armor, "given as we are both women of the cloth performing good deeds in the name of our god, we shall not be requiring financial compensation for any services rendered here."</p><p>The receptionist continued to stare at them, a conflicted look in his eyes.  She offered him a reassuring smile.  He gulped something down; either spit or fear, she had no way of knowing.</p><p>"And... What would these services be?" He asked.</p><p>Across the counter, Mardi grinned even wider.</p><p>"Got any employees in need of remedying?" Arsène offered.</p><p>"Got any problem customers y'can't report t'the guards?" Mardi added.</p><p>"Got any concerns that can't be easily explained to the landlords?"</p><p>"Got any fellas that could use a good halberdin'?"</p><p>"Got any employees that could use counselling for the days to come?"</p><p>"Got anything to drink actually, 'cause I'm pretty parched," Mardi finished.  "We were kinda walking around the neighborhood for a few hours before we found this place."</p><p>"Really?" Arsène asked, "You should've remembered to bring your waterskin with you when we left the inn."</p><p>"Look, I didn't think it would take this long to find somewhere, okay?!"</p><p>"Uhm," the receptionist said.</p><p>The sisters turned their heads back towards him.  He cradled his fingers together, looking over the both of them with a mix of ease and caution.</p><p>"These... services you're offering," he began, "they wouldn't draw any undo attention towards this establishment?  No beams of light or unexplainable atmospheric events that might alert the guards?"</p><p>"Nope."</p><p>"No, none at all."</p><p>The half-orc smiled.  "Well then.  I believe that I and my employer would be more than amenable to working with the two of you.  Now, if you would follow me?" he said, rising from his desk and gesturing to a staircase build into the adjoining wall.</p><p>Arsène nodded and started walking, Mardi not very far behind.</p><p>With any luck, they'd have that misery smell gone by this time tomorrow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Arsène Cocodril (and her sister, Mardi Cocodril, played by a dear friend of mine) are characters made for a now-defunct campaign.  They followed a homebrew god of revelry and debauchery whose worship was outlawed by the empire they lived in, though popular in the frontier town that they both grew up in.  For ease of translation, said god has been replaced here by Sune.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Oathbreaker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Someone had loved him once.  Didn't they?</p>
<p>Warden couldn't be sure anymore.  All those memories had been ground down by time like bones ground under his boots.  Still...</p>
<p>It was nice to think about, wasn't it?</p>
<p>Wind was howling in through the windows again, echoing in the empty halls of his master's castle like it knew he was the only one left who could still hear it.  Some years ago, he would have found the noise insufferable.  Now it was just nice to have some form of company as he went through his patrol routes.  If not for the wind, all he would have to join him were the sound of his own footsteps on the stone tile, and the sound of his own thoughts bouncing around in his own head.</p>
<p>It would be enough to drive a man to madness.  Assuming he wasn't mad already.</p>
<p>The various rooms of the castle were empty as always, dust coating the stone where blood had once seeped in, rust coating the instruments where his master's servants had once wrought misery.  Whatever followers his master might have had, devils and mages and sycophants all looking for the merest sliver of the Fiend's power, they were all long gone now, either killed in the wake of his master's death or having simply fled of their own accord to attach themself to some other dark power elsewhere.</p>
<p>He was angry at them once.  Angry that they would fail.  Angry that they would flee.  Angry that they would leave him behind.  Angry that they <em>could</em> leave him behind.</p>
<p>Angry that out of all his master's servants, only he was still bound to the castle.</p>
<p>He still remembers those days, hazily.  With the death of the Fiend and the exodus of his servants, adventurers had come in droves to plunder the castle of everything that might've held even the slightest value.  They'd thought the place abandoned.  They'd thought the danger minimal.  And he—he'd howled like the wind when he found them, raged against any that would dare stand before him, cut down any that would dare intrude upon his misery.  If he was to suffer in the wake of his master's death, then he would make everyone else suffer too.</p>
<p>But...</p>
<p>The adventurers stopped coming, eventually.  He couldn't possibly have killed them all.  Word must've gone out that the castle wasn't as abandoned as previously thought.  And then he was alone again.</p>
<p>No one to take his anger out on.  No one to help him forget.  No one to put him out of his misery.</p>
<p>Rage turned to bitterness turned to melancholy.  Solitude turned to boredom turned to loneliness.</p>
<p>All he had left in the world was his thoughts, and his footsteps, and the wind.</p>
<p>The gales coming in through the windows were strong enough now to whip his hair around in the deadened hallways.  There must be a storm going on outside.  With any luck there would even be rain, or thunder, or lightning.  Anything to break up the monotony of ambling down the same corridors again and again and again, checking for intruders that would never come.</p>
<p>He'd had a different life before all this, didn't he?  Before the castle.  Before the missives.  Before the Fiend.  He'd given it all up for... Something.  He didn't know what it was anymore.  The memory was too ground down to be clear.</p>
<p>But he was a warrior, wasn't he?  He hadn't always shed blood in the Fiend's name.  He must have come from somewhere.  He must have known <em>someone</em>.</p>
<p>Someone had fought with him once.  Someone had trained with him once.  Someone had loved him once.</p>
<p>Didn't they?</p>
<p>Warden couldn't be sure anymore.  He wasn't even sure if it mattered anymore.</p>
<p>Still... It was nice to think about, wasn't it?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warden Cainbreak is a fiendtouched half-elf paladin inspired by the <a href="https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Fallen_Hero_(5e_Background)">Fallen Hero</a> background, though he has since grown into a less edgy and more complicated character since that initial conception.  Having long since forgotten what it was about the dark powers that drew him to join them in the first place, Warden finds himself wondering more and more about the life he left behind.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Oath Of Redemption</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From the moment that he could first recall, Nicodemus had always had chains branded into his skin.  Magic things that glowed and thrummed and pulsed at times, reaching from his wrists to his neck to his ankles, covering almost his entire body with links and bands.  He'd never known what they were for.  He never even knew how he got them.  All he knew was that he'd been found with them, and considering everything else that happened that night, they were probably related to the fact that he didn't even have a name to call himself by in those days.</p><p>And, well.  Apparently that theory wasn't exactly <em>wrong</em>, per se.</p><p>And now he had brand new chains made of cold iron to deal with on top of the ones in his skin.</p><p>Nicodemus cast his gaze upon as much of his surroundings as he could from his current position, and noted bitterly that this would be the <em>second</em> time in his life that he'd found himself bound on an altar in some infernal cult den.  Though, he amended, this would be his first time remembering the experience.  Not that he would have long to remember.  As soon as the cultists started shuffling in for whatever ritual they had in mind, he was probably going to die.</p><p>The weird thing was, he couldn't even manage to feel bad about that.  Sure, on the one hand he'd be dead, and he'd never get to tell Sir Tanis how he really felt about their relationship.</p><p>But on the other hand, apparently he'd be taking a demon lord out with him, and that was pretty much every paladin's dream, wasn't it?</p><p>God, he'd really rather just be back home at the temple eating Tanis's shitty cooking right now.</p><p>A glint of metal in motion from the corner of his eye caught his attention.  He whipped his head around.</p><p>A hooded figure was slinking across the ritual chambers—one wearing mithral halfplate instead of infernal robes.  The figure flashed Nicodemus a grin when they noticed he was looking at them.  He finally realized who it was when they finally got right up next to the altar.</p><p>"Sir Holland?"</p><p>"Heya, Nic.  Been a while," came the smooth-voiced reply.  The other paladin ran a few ungloved fingertips down the chains, wincing a bit at the contact.  "Cold iron, huh?  Y'don't see this stuff all that often anymore."</p><p>Sir Holland immediately ducked a hand into his bags and pulled out a set of lock picks.  "This doesn't burn you too, does it?"</p><p>Nicodemus stretched a hand experimentally.  Everything was either achy or numb from the metal digging too tightly into his skin.</p><p>"No," he said, "it's just uncomfortable."</p><p>The other paladin nodded.  "Gotcha.  I'll try to work quickly anyways."</p><p>Nicodemus found himself nodding along too.  Sir Holland used to be a thief before joining the order, if he remembered correctly.  It made sense that he'd be the one coming to the rescue.  If you wanted to sneak someone past the enemy lines, who better to send than the guy who's used to sneaking around?</p><p>But at the same time...</p><p>"Did you know about this?" he asked.  He didn't even bother elaborating with the 'this' in question was.</p><p>Sir Holland's hands faltered.  "I..."</p><p>"Did Tanis know?"</p><p>"...I don't know.  Probably."  Sir Holland admitted, and god damn was that a bitter pill to swallow.  He went back to picking the locks.  "I know Sir Lordfury was on the council to determine whether to let you into the order or not, so it'd make sense that they would."</p><p>An idea sprang up in his head, insidious and cruel.  Before he could stop himself, it was already out of his mouth.</p><p>"Were they ever really meant to be my teacher, or were they just meant to put me down if I got too fiend-like for the order's liking?"</p><p>The seconds dragged on.  All Nicodemus could hear was the clinking of metal on metal.</p><p>He had to grit his teeth to keep from yelling and alerting the cultists to their position.  Nicodemus had been proud once, to be mentored by such a capable warrior when he himself was just some nobody they'd pulled out of a cult compound.  He should've realized earlier that there was more to it than that.  Stupid.  He'd been so stupid.  Oh, you thought you'd had a happy life?  You thought you'd found a family?  Too bad, that was all a lie.  The people you thought cared about you were just making sure you didn't break out of your leash and kill them all for their trouble.</p><p>"They're out there right now at the front, you know, keeping the cultists busy."</p><p>Nicodemus blinked.  "What?"</p><p>"Sir Lordfury.  Tanis.  When we got word that you'd been caught, they were the first to rally the men to your rescue.  They were the one who cleared the path so I could come find you.  No one gets left behind, you know?"</p><p>He...</p><p>He did know.  That had been one of the tenets stressed the most to him after he'd joined the order.  Especially by Tanis.  If his mentor had known even then, and still taught him anyways...</p><p>A clicking sound caught his attention and suddenly one of his hands was alight with pins and needles as the blood started rushing back in.  Nicodemus bit his lip to keep from making a sound.  Sir Holland was already moving on to the next arm.</p><p>"I don't have any extra armor with me," the other paladin said quickly, "But I do have an extra sword.  I've still got my old dagger, so don't worry about me on the fight back out of this place."</p><p>"We can probably find my equipment elsewhere in the compound.  There wouldn't have been enough time to get rid of it," Nicodemus said.</p><p>"Ah, but would there be time for you to put it on before the boys in robes found us?" Sir Holland replied.</p><p>Probably not.  Shit.</p><p>The second manacle came undone with a click and Nicodemus hissed as that hand lit up too.  Sir Holland helped him to his feet and pressed a sword in his waiting hand.</p><p>"You ready to get out there and join the fight?"</p><p>His legs felt shaky after so much time on his knees.  He took a deep breath.  "As I'll ever be."</p><p>"Glad to hear it.  Oh, and, hey.  Don't be surprised if you find yourself on the receiving end of an awkward conversation after all this is over, by the way."</p><p>He could imagine.  <em>Oh hey, sorry we never told you you were a demon in tiefling skin, our bad, we thought it'd be better if you didn't know, </em>he thought.</p><p>"And why's that?" he said.</p><p>A hearty slap hit him in the back and sent him stumbling down the altar's stone steps.</p><p>"Cause when Lordfury sent me ahead to come find you," Sir Holland said with a smile, "Their exact words were 'go get my son.'"</p><p>The hooded paladin walked off with those last words, leaving Nicodemus standing where he was.  Go get...?  He felt his heart skip a beat as he rushed to catch up with Sir Holland, a sense of renewed energy driving him forward.</p><p>Maybe he would get to tell Tanis after all...</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Nicodemus the Lost is an <a href="https://media.wizards.com/2015/downloads/dnd/07_UA_That_Old_Black_Magic.pdf">Abyssal tiefling</a> paladin inspired by the homebrew class, <a href="https://the-huntsmans-homebrews.tumblr.com/post/179601135849">Chained Ancient.</a>  He was originally created as an npc for the heroes to save from himself, but I later scrapped that idea and turned him into a pc in his own right.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Oath Of Battle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The crack of cartilage underneath their shield gave them no satisfaction, nor did the accompanying spray of blood, nor did the sight of the bandit crumpling to the earth in a heap beneath them.  One of the bandits off to the side seemed distinctly uneasy at the sight.  They might have just taken down the band's leader.</p><p>Oh well.</p><p>A bandit rushed in from the tree lines carrying some kind of dagger glinting green in the sunlight.  A step back to avoid the swinging blade, an outstretched arm to catch the second swipe before it could connect.</p><p>They tightened their grip until they could hear the bones creak beneath the skin and <em>twisted.  </em>Another falling to a heap in the ground, screaming this time.</p><p>Combatant downed, but not out.  Ignore for now.  Focus on the next target.</p><p>Two bandits came in at once from opposite directions.  Duck under one swing and counter the other?  Step back and have them crash into each other?</p><p>It didn't matter.  They would all fall eventually.  The fight would end.  The enemy would leave, or die.  And they would still be standing afterwards, having gained not even the thrill of a good fight.</p><p>Such was their penance.</p><p>The two bandits attacked from both directions, one swinging a mace high up to shatter their jaw, the other ducking low with a sword to pierce through their belly.</p><p>Divert the swordsman with an out-swing of the shield.  Kick the maceman's legs out from under him.</p><p>Bring the morningstar down upon both of them.</p><p>Cries of pain.  Bring the morningstar down again.  A crunch of bone and a splatter of blood. </p><p>Neither of the men moving anymore.</p><p>Their eyes shot back up to the rest of the battlefield only to see bandits fleeing in fear.</p><p>So it was over already then?  A pity.</p><p>They returned their weapon to its place along their belt, eyeing the man with the twisted arm as he struggled to return to his feet.</p><p>Would he attack?  Would he flee like the others?</p><p>The man took off running into the tree lines, leaving his dagger behind.</p><p>Good.</p><p>They turned their attention beyond the endless woodland to the side of the road—more specifically, to the overturned carriage waiting on its side, still helplessly spinning one wheel in the air.  The horses had long since run off in the panic of the attack.  They did not waste time in heading closer.</p><p>A voice rose up from just beyond the earthen path.  "S-sir Knight?"</p><p>"I am here," they responded.  Their gaze lowered, looking for the source of the sound.  A waving hand in the bushes caught their attention and they moved the foliage out of the way with an outstretched hand.  The haggard face of a well-dressed man greeted them, likely the coachman of the carriage.</p><p>"Ah, thank you, Sir Knight," the man said.  "We weren't expecting a rescue so swiftly—or at all, for that matter. Are the men who attacked us...?"</p><p>"They have been dealt with," they responded again.  "Are you injured?"</p><p>"Ah, somewhat.  I believe I twisted my ankle when the carriage was flipped on its side.  The bushes were enough to shelter me from further harm, thankfully."</p><p>They nodded.  Divine energy was already beginning to flow through their hands as they spoke.  "Then allow me to heal you—"</p><p>"No, spare me no mind, sir!" the coachman said, ardently shaking his head.  "If you must tend to the wounded, then please, check my Lady and her son first before you spare even a glance at me!"</p><p>They turned their attention once more to the carriage.</p><p>"Very well," they said, and started walking.</p><p>They ran a hand along the top edge of the carriage's underside, looking for purchase to grab on to.  An overhang of wood, a decorative flourish that might be able to hold weight.  There didn't seem to be much.  They would just have to dig their fingers in and hope for the best.  They slung their shield across their shoulder to free their other hand and grabbed hold.</p><p>Energy flowed through them.  The wood of the carriage splintered under their grasp, but did not break away as they pulled the carriage back down onto the road, their grip shifting halfway to better guide the descent and prevent the wheels from cracking on contact with the road.</p><p>They heard movement from inside the closed doors and curtained windows of the carriage.  They opened the door.</p><p>Two figures inside wearing fine dress, a small child on the cushioned seats staring at them with wide eyes, and a woman on the floor with blood running down her forehead.</p><p>The woman did not appear to be breathing.</p><p>They did not waste time in channeling the magic to their hands.</p><p>They laid a hand upon her forehead, letting the energy flow for their body to hers.  Her wound would not heal.  Her body would not accept the energy.</p><p>She was dead.</p><p>Dead, but only just.</p><p>They drew the divine energy from deeper inside themself, from more than just the everyday reserves they used to heal injuries, and sent it once more out from their hands.  Not flowing, but searching, tugging at the soul still resting inside.</p><p>
  <em>Can you hear me?</em>
</p><p>Precious seconds passed.  A weak response.</p><p>
  <em>Yes.  Am I dead?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For now.  Do you want to return?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes!  Yes, please, I couldn't bear leaving my dear Edwin all by himself!</em>
</p><p>They nodded imperceptibly to the woman on the floor.  The energy within them took hold and <em>pulled</em>.</p><p>When they heard a second set of lungs breathing, they let go.</p><p>Their hand remained on the woman's forehead only long enough to heal what was left of her head wound before drawing away.  They gave a reassuring smile to the boy sitting wide-eyed on the cushions before closing the carriage door and going back around to fetch the coachman.</p><p>"Are they alright?" he asked as they pulled him from the bushes.  When he had both feet on the ground again, he seemed to marvel at the realization that his leg had been healed.  They paid his wonderment no mind.</p><p>"They will live," they responded.  "I do not know where your horses are.  I shall lend you the use of my own steed until you are able to procure replacements."</p><p>"I—Sir Knight, I'm not quite sure if I can accept that!  How would we ever get the horse back to you?"</p><p>"My warhorse is celestial.  She will return to the upper planes when her duty has been finished. You need not trouble yourself."</p><p>The coachman continued to look conflicted.  They drew upon the needed energies and began summoning their warhorse anyways.</p><p>By the time the coachman spoke again they were already extending the beast's reins with rope.</p><p>"Sir Knight, I cannot begin to properly express the depth of our gratitude.  If you would, please, at least give me your name so that my Lady and I could spread tales of your chivalrous deeds when we reach our destination."</p><p>They shook their head.</p><p>"If you must, just call me Stranger," they said, "for that is all I am."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Stranger" is a bit of a complicated paladin—they started out as an oc based loosely on the Fierce Deity from Majora's Mask before being adapted into a dnd character.  Their dnd incarnation was inspired by the Fallen background from reddit user zeek0's <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1glN1XjMwDz_K3EucJsx6OtKJ6TrwdU2J">Background Omnibus</a>, and their oath comes from Aaron Loeb et al.'s <a href="https://greenroninstore.com/products/the-book-of-the-righteous-5e"><em>The Book Of The Righteous.</em></a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Oath Of Glory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His sigh was just pointed enough to start her off yelling again.</p><p>"Look, how was I supposed to know we'd get arrested!  There's never been a problem before!"</p><p>"You'd never managed to set anything on fire before."</p><p>"It's a <em>magic shop!</em>  You'd think they'd ward all their stuff to keep it from being affected by spells!"</p><p>"And how," Jebediah said, stressing his words very carefully, "would the shopkeeper be able to ward all of his wares in such a way that he doesn't accidentally ward them against their own magic as well?"</p><p>Merethyl paused.  He could practically see the gears in her head turning.</p><p>Eventually the young sorcerer slumped down against the corner of the cell, defeated.</p><p>"Whatever," she grumbled. "At least no one got hurt."</p><p>"At least no one got hurt," he repeated, nodding, and resettled himself on the bench hanging against the cell wall.</p><p>They'd been in here for perhaps fifteen minutes already, and Jebediah fully expected to wait at least a few hours before the rest of their party found them.  Perhaps even through the night depending on whether or not there'd be bail to pay.  Or if it took a while for their absence to be noted.  It'd do him well to get as comfy as he possibly could while they waited.</p><p>He didn't really mind all of this in the end.  It'd do Merethyl some good to deal with the consequences of her actions for once.</p><p>"Why are you even here?" she asked suddenly.  Apparently even a few seconds of silence was too much.</p><p>Jebediah shrugged.  "Well, I heard you guys were going after a demon cult and needed someone handy with a sword, so I—"</p><p>"No, I mean <em>why are you here in jail with me</em>.  You didn't get arrested.  You don't have to be here."</p><p>"Ah."  He craned his head off to the side with a faux-thoughtful expression, fully aware that the young sorcerer couldn't see it past his helmet.</p><p>"Well," he said eventually, "I've never been in jail before."</p><p>"Oh, <em>piss off.</em>"</p><p>"I thought it would be fun to try."</p><p>"You're killing me, Jeb."</p><p>"Well it's a good thing I'm already in jail then.  And that's <em>Sir</em> Jeb to you, Miss Merethyl."</p><p>She made a gagging noise from over on her corner of the cell.  He couldn't resist laughing softly in response.</p><p>"In all honesty," he continued, "I figured you could use the company.  Wouldn't want you to get so bored you burn your cell down, too."</p><p>He heard grumbling from her direction.  He shifted his shoulders again (so hard to get metal to rest comfortably against stone) and let his eyes wander.  Their cell had a pretty good view of the constable's office, likely to discourage any misbehavior.  There was an array of haphazardly placed wanted posters lining the walls.  The names were too faded or too far away to read.  He made a game of trying to guess who was depicted on each one.</p><p>"Wonder if they still got mine...?" he murmured.</p><p>"What, your brain?"</p><p>"My poster."</p><p>Merethyl shot up like a firework.  "Your <em>what?</em>"</p><p>"I thought I made myself pretty clear—"</p><p>"No, bullshit, you're nowhere near cool enough for that," the sorcerer said firmly.  When he turned to look at her, there was a distinct set to her jaw.  "You're like—you're like if someone's dad decided to go adventuring one day.  You're always helping people.  You tried getting Askeladden to quit gambling within hours of meeting him.  If you're wanted for anything it's probably like...paying too much in taxes or something, or pulling a tag off a mattress."</p><p>"You don't know what I got up to before I joined your group," Jebediah said.</p><p>"You <em>just</em> said you've never been to prison."</p><p>"That just means I've never been caught."</p><p>She stared at him.</p><p>He stared right back.</p><p>She huffed again and went back to sulking in the corner.  Jebediah just shrugged and resumed his guessing game.</p><p>He did not, in fact, find his face among the posters on the wall.</p><p>Probably because as far as the warrant office was aware, the man named Jebediah Ironsides was supposed to be dead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jebediah "Ironfist" Ironsides is the result of me asking myself "what would happen if a paladin had the criminal background"?  A former crimeboss looking to find some way to atone, he is currently statted up with the <a href="https://media.wizards.com/2019/dnd/downloads/UA-EloquentHeroics.pdf">Oath of Heroism</a>, but will be switched over to the now-canonized Oath of Glory as soon as I can find transcripts from <a href="https://dnd.wizards.com/products/tabletop-games/rpg-products/mythic-odysseys-theros">Mystic Odysseys of Theros.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Oath Of Vengeance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You know normally, when some tall, dark, brooding stranger garbed in all black decides to hang out in the shadiest part of the inn all by himself, it's because he's some edgy tryhard wanting to make a statement.  Normally.</p><p>In the case of this particular tall, dark, brooding stranger garbed in all black, it's because the fireplace is too bright and he can't fucking see.</p><p>He'd gotten a wide berth on the tavern floor the moment he walked into the building, partly on account of the typical image of the tall, dark, brooding stranger, and partly on account of the fact that he was still covered in his own blood and had a few noticeable holes in his armor.  Most of the chatter had stopped, even.  The narrow-eyed scowl that came when the firelight hit him and it became so much harder to see didn't hurt either.</p><p>Somewhere out of the corner of his eye he'd noticed another armored man reach for a sword only to be stopped by a well-dressed woman sitting next to him.  She shook her head and muttered something he couldn't hear.  Whatever.  He was just going to ignore that and stagger to the nearest dark corner.</p><p>So he did.  And so here he was, sitting by himself, and nursing the worst headache that any man could ever hope to have.</p><p>Not every day you wake up in an iron maiden.  Not every day you realize you're a dead man walking either.</p><p>Realizing you don't have a whole lot of memories left?  Now that happens to adventurers all the damn time.</p><p>He kicked his feet up on one of the table's other chairs (because contrary to most other tall, dark, brooding strangers, he was not fucking rude enough to just put his boots on a table people ate at) and leaned back further into the dark corner.  He closed his eyes and went over the events of his life so far as he knew them.</p><p>He'd awoken in a torture chamber, empty save for someone who looked to be murdered.  He didn't know who they were, but looking at them made him feel all kinds of conflicted ways, so he probably did know them at some point before he died.  There was a book with a list of names on it, with a few of them crossed out.  There was a suit of armor that fit him, and had a few holes in the metal that matched a few holes in his guts.  There was a weird idol...</p><p>God.  The idol.  He doesn't know why he took it, but it felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket, trying to get him to pay attention to it.  But how the hell was he supposed to do that?  Just stare at it until something interesting happens?</p><p>Nah, fuck that.  He's got other things to do first.</p><p>So time to put the first thing's first.  Who the hell was he?  One of the names crossed out in the book, Davenport, had called out to him.  Like it was his.  And he was pretty sure he knew the rest of it, too: Davenport Edelwald, son of...Someone, apparently.  Whatever.  It didn't matter, there probably weren't all that many Edelwald families in the world.  He'd find the right one eventually and ask them if he looked familiar.</p><p>So that was one thing taken care of.  Second thing's second.  Why was he in the iron maiden to begin with?  If he thought back really hard, he could vaguely remember an argument, and a cave, and something ungodly sharp going through his kidneys.  He could remember... Anger.  Protectiveness.  Betrayal.  Probably safe to assume that whoever he was arguing with figured he wasn't dead enough for their liking and decided to finish the job in style.</p><p>Joke's on them.  He's still not dead enough.</p><p>So that's the who's and the why's, but the where's, how's, and when's still elude him.  Where was the chamber in relation to the cave?  How long was he out before he woke up again?  When was the guy in the chamber murdered, and for what purpose?</p><p>So many questions, and not nearly enough answers to go around.  Meanwhile the idol in his pocket kept burning away at him, practically begging for his attention.  Swear to god if that thing turned out to have the answers he needed he was going to eat his fucking boots.</p><p>A very insistent tapping noise came to his attention over the resumed (but still somewhat muted) chatter of the tavern floor, so he opened his eyes again and took a gander.</p><p>A big burly man wearing a server's apron stood at the table, arms crossed in irritation and looking down at him like <em>he</em> was the one with the bad attitude.</p><p>"Y'here to cause any trouble?" the man said.</p><p>"That'd be news to me if I was," he replied, mildly surprised by how smooth his voice sounded considering the hole in his throat and the fact that he hadn't said a single thing since he woke up.</p><p>The man scowled at the smart remark, but nodded in quiet approval anyways.  He pulled a tablet and a piece of chalk from his apron.</p><p>"In that case, space is limited so I'm gonna need ye to buy something or get out.  So, what'll it be?"</p><p>Unlike most tall, dark, brooding strangers, he found himself momentarily stunned by the gruff questioning.  Not because of the distinct lack of respect or fear given, but because of the nature of the question itself.  Apparently there was something else he'd forgotten.</p><p>Third thing's third.  Did he have any fucking money on him?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sir Davenport Edelwald exists because I wanted to make a revenant paladin, told myself I had enough paladins and maybe I should make a revenant cleric instead, then got sad and decided fuck it I'll make a revenant cleric <em>and</em> a revenant paladin.  Rather than using the Unearthed Arcana entry for the revenant (which is pretty overpowered for a player race), Davenport was made using <a href="https://www.dmsguild.com/product/194433/Revenant-The-Vengeful-Dead">Revenant: The Vengeful Dead.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Paladin of Honor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two thousand years in the future and the world didn't really seem all that much better than it did when he walked the streets and fields of Medeas as a living man.  There was peace, apparently, but peace that came after years and years of war rather than peace that came from the races of men all collectively joining together to become better than they were.</p><p>It was... Disappointing.  Especially now that that peace had ended and Catalinas once again found himself fighting an ancient enemy for the sake of the world.  Only this time, he didn't have his men fighting with him.  And this time, there was no bright-eyed enthusiasm that good would automatically triumph over evil if he just gave his all and trusted in Pelor.  He'd done that the last time.</p><p>It had gotten him killed.</p><p>Now, Catalinas had new men fighting with him.  Now, he had new strength to aid him in addition to the strength he had before.  Now, his spirit had a new, more durable vessel to carry it.</p><p>For a certain definition of "new" anyways, since he was effectively haunting his old armor from the war.  An ironic fate for a paladin.  And a deeply inconvenient fate for any man who liked to cook, considering that the wooden spoons in the galley were hard to manipulate properly with steel and leather hands.</p><p>He bit back a curse as the wooden instrument made a splintering noise in his hand.  Or at least the closest approximation of biting back anything considering he hardly needed his mouth to speak.  This would normally be something he'd take his gauntlets off to do, but he didn't really have hands anymore, so that wasn't exactly an option.  Thankfully, mixing cream and milk and salt didn't take much finesse.</p><p>Two thousand years in the future and apparently ice cream has become a lost technology.  Catalinas had no idea how exactly that happened, but it was just another item on the list of reasons he disliked this new world.  At least he could still remember this small touch of home even if the rest of the world didn't.</p><p>There was a candle burning brightly on the counter to help him see since apparently he's the only ghost in the world that doesn't have low-light vision.  The old paladin didn't particularly <em>need</em> the candlelight since he could just start shining brightly himself if the mood truly took him, Pelor had given him the ability to do so as his first worshipper in the strange new world that had so suddenly grafted itself onto His worldtree, but his glow was far brighter than any one candle could be, and while Catalinas didn't know what time it was outside, he did know that it was late enough that people were trying to sleep.</p><p>His opinion on his current companions was... mixed, at times... but positive enough that he didn't want to rid them of their well-earned slumber.  Just because he couldn't sleep anymore, that didn't mean he wanted to damn everyone else to a restless night.</p><p>It was getting harder and harder to churn the ice cream with his spoon, so in the interests of not ending up breaking the damn thing in his hands, Catalinas was going to assume that the ice cream had finished churning.  Now to just put it in the ice box and wait.</p><p>He turned from the counter and nearly jumped out of his own armor at the sudden appearance of a brightly colored jester sitting pretty on the opposite countertops.  The ostentatious fae gave him a friendly wave with one hand, a bowl of ice cream held in the other.</p><p>He did not succeed in biting back a curse this time.</p><p>If he still had a heart, Catalinas was certain it would be pounding in his chest.  Honestly, the people he found himself with...  The old paladin was glad suddenly that he had left his scythe within his quarters when he'd decided to head to the galley to make more ice cream.  He didn't want to think about what his reaction might've been with a weapon so readily available.  To say nothing of a divine weapon.</p><p>"Pierrot," he said, as gently and as quietly as he could without descending into any particularly <em>ghostly</em> whispering tones, "My apologies.  I was... unaware that you were still on the ship.  Pandora had told us that she'd sent you away for your own safety."</p><p>Pierrot shrugged his shoulders, the bells on his jester's hat jingling as he moved.  "I mean... I <em>was</em> gone, but then you know I got a craving for pistachios, and we don't have any back at the castle, and <em>then</em> I remembered that Pandora had left the portal open when she sent me back so I thought, why not pop in and see if there's some pistachio ice cream?"</p><p>Catalinas could not exactly fault that logic.  Well, actually, no, he could.  Because he was the one making the ice cream and he knew what he put in it.  Then again...</p><p>"I haven't made any batches with pistachios in them," he said warily.</p><p>Pierrot angled the bowl in his hand downwards so that the old paladin could see the contents.  They were a light green with nuts interspersed throughout.  "Well then I guess no one thought to tell the ice cream that."</p><p>He felt like swearing again.  No.  He needed to get a better grip on his temper.  Catalinas sighed instead.</p><p>For some reason every time he tried making ice cream, it always ended up a different flavor than what he started with.  Perhaps this was why the simple confection had been lost to time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Catalinas the Deft is Baby's First D&amp;D Character, and holds a special place in my heart.  You will notice that he does not have an oath listed—This is because Catalinas is a 3.5e Paladin, not a 5e paladin like the rest.  Storywise, he's a revenant ghost haunting his former armor 2000 years after he died; mechanically, he's more like a very weird warforged with low intelligence.  Unlike the other chapters, I can't say more than that, because I didn't make his racial stats myself, and my knowledge of 3.5e is limited.</p><p>Pierrot and Pandora, unlike most other characters in this series, are actual characters being played in this campaign.  Pierrot's dialogue was written in consultation with his player.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Oath of the Watchers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It did not know what had called it here.  It did not know what had driven it to leave the field of battle and return once more to the land of its birth.</p>
<p>All it knew was that the queendom it had left was not the same as the queendom it returned to.</p>
<p>There was hardly any sound that filtered through the old country's walls beyond the whistling of the wind through empty streets and empty homes.  The sounds of its boots against the once-busy cobblestone, the sound of its armor plating clacking and clanging as it moved, the sound of its sword and its lance colliding as it walked.  These sounds were new.</p>
<p>These sounds had not graced the country in a long time, and likely would not grace the country for a longer time still after it left.</p>
<p>It did not know why the streets were empty.  It did not know why its home was silent.  It barely even recognized its home at all, though that was for a different reason.</p>
<p>It stopped and stood as the singular piece of life in a dead queendom, luminous eyes staring at a once great nation and metallic hair blowing in a once quiet wind.</p>
<p>It did not understand.  What had happened while it was gone defending the country from outside invaders?</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It hardly required much in the way of food, or warmth, or rest as it made its way through the empty land; such things were not found in abundance on the battlefield, and so it had trained itself to make do without.  It was, regardless, eternal.  Though its body should waste away without nourishment, its strength shall not fade, and it shall endeavor onwards undeterred.  Such was the covenant that had transformed it into its current state mere moments after birth.  Such was the power that had made it an unbreaking statue in the shape of a man.</p>
<p>But it was confused.  Did the terms of its covenant not also extend to the land of its creation?  Was not the queendom also meant to be eternal?  Was not that <em>why</em> it had been transformed in the first place?  An everlasting warrior to defend an everlasting nation?</p>
<p>It did not understand.  So it made its way to the grand palace at the queendom's heart.  The vast sprawling place where it had been born, where it had been Changed, where its mother and its siblings had lived.  Still lived, surely.  Its mother had loved her people so much that she had given her firstborn to keep them safe.</p>
<p>Surely she would stay even in the wake of the rest of the queendom abruptly vanishing.  Surely she would know what had happened.</p>
<p>Surely she would welcome it home...?</p>
<p>No.  It needed not such things.  Love was not found in abundance on the battlefield, and so it had trained itself to make do without.</p>
<p>It kept walking.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Small signs of life started appearing as it ventured further and further inward into the country.  Traces of various feet walking through overgrown grass.  Traces of a bonfire that had burnt in a firepit.  Traces of earth that had been dug up to hide bones and fat.  Traces of earth that had been dug up to hide less savory things.</p>
<p>Someone had been living here, and recently.</p>
<p>But why move?  Why leave?  Had this stranger or strangers been called to the country as it too had been called?  Were they searching for the Queen, like it was?  Were they Cha—</p>
<p>No.  No, there would not be another.  Its mother had not spent much time with it, allowing it to pretend at life as a normal child in the palace only until it had grown strong enough to fulfil its covenant, but she had never made hidden the sorrow she had felt for what she had done to preserve her nation.  There would not be another like it.  Its mother would never sacrifice more than one.</p>
<p>Regardless, such a theory did not explain what else it discovered as it continued its pilgrimage.</p>
<p>Chips missing from otherwise immaculate walls, dust removed ever so carefully from murals and frescoes, holes dug ever so neatly in parks and thoroughfares to expose the careful engineering beneath the ground to the uncaring eye of the sun.</p>
<p>It did not understand.  What was the point to such work, and what would compel one to simply leave their work exposed to the elements in such a fashion?</p>
<p>What was happening to its homeland?  What had happened?  Will happen?</p>
<p>It kept walking.  The lack of sustenance or rest was taking a toll on its body, but it had endured far more for far less.  It needed answers.</p>
<p>It needed to find the Queen.</p>
<p>It needed to find its mother.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It could not remember the last time it had enjoyed an evening.  It could not remember the last time it had seen the stars without a haze of blood and broken enemies in its periphery.  There was a blackness plaguing it that had nothing to do with the night, but for its own life it could not open its eyes and take another step.</p>
<p>How unfortunate that it had collapsed right on the steps to its mother's grand palace.</p>
<p>It knew what was happening.  An eternal warrior was not one for whom death was unknown, but one for whom death was unattainable.  It has known death many times, and known life many more.</p>
<p>However.  This death would be new.  This death would not be at the hands of some monstrous outsider, but at the hands of their own determination.</p>
<p>It did not understand.  Its strength did not wane away with its body as was common for mortals, not through the power of the covenant, and yet it could not move.  For too long had it gone on without that which bodies need to survive, and now it was paying the price for a change in the laws of its existence that it had never known existed.  Why?</p>
<p>Was this its fault?  The covenant stated that it would fight forever to defend the queendom, and yet it had left its post the moment it felt the call.  Would that breaking of the covenant mean that this death is permanent?  Is that what its simple-minded heeding of the call had wrought?  The lack of life in its homeland, was that too the result of its actions?  Or had the covenant been broken before it heard the call, on the end of its great homeland?</p>
<p>No.  Its mother would never.  There must be something more.</p>
<p>There must be something more.</p>
<p>There must be—</p>
<p>There must...</p>
<p>There were voices...</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Warmth.  Inside and outside, warmth was the first thing it registered.</p>
<p>Not like the warmth of the Citadel.  This was not the radiance of the covenant.  This was not the warmth of resurrection.  This was...</p>
<p>It didn't know what this was.  Like something from a long forgotten memory.</p>
<p>But the warmth without gave it peace and the warmth within gave it strength.  Strength just enough to open its eyes and inspect its surroundings, for it knew it had heard voices and it knew that whatever surface it was sprawled out upon now was far too soft to be the moonstone steps of the palace. </p>
<p>It opened its luminous eyes and saw the vaulted murals painted on the palace's ceilings.  Chipped.  Faded with time and lack of care.  Its mother would not have allowed her home to reach such a state while she still lived within it.</p>
<p>...But then again, it had not seen its mother in a very long time.  What did it know anymore?</p>
<p>The rest of the room was in similar disrepair.  The walls were chipped and molding tarnished.  The elegant rugs had been eaten or decayed to mere scraps of their former glory.  It moved and felt a strange resistance, only to look down and see that the weight upon its body was not its armor but a number of heavy blankets.</p>
<p>A bed.  It was in a bedroom and someone had seen fit to remove its cold armor and put it in a bed.  Its eyes narrowed in confusion.  Where was its armor?  Where was its weaponry?</p>
<p>Not to mention, the bed might have explained the odd warmth without, but what about the odd warmth within?</p>
<p>It left its warm confinement with a cacophony of antique creaks and groans, trying to cast out its senses to determine what other life must exist in the palace.  If not its mother, then perhaps one if its siblings still remained?  That would make more sense.  It knew little of its mother's younger children; the idea that one of them would allow such ruin into the palace was far more palatable.</p>
<p>Ah.  Palate.  Now that the thought had occurred, it noticed the faint few traces something different on its tongue.  Something spiced.  Fatty, perhaps.  Someone had given it food.</p>
<p>...Someone had...</p>
<p>It did not understand.  Food and warmth and rest—these were mortal comforts, mortal necessities.  <em>It</em> was not mortal, not truly.  It had no specific need for such things.  So why...?</p>
<p>It would not get an answer to such questions.  Not yet.  At roughly about the moment that its wonderings might've reached some form of conclusion, the face of a stranger appeared in the decrepit room's doorway.</p>
<p>It stared at the stranger.  The stranger stared back at it.</p>
<p>They opened their mouth and a rapid, foreign tongue came spilling out.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The foreigner lead it by the hand, speaking excitedly all the while.  It kept its confusion tightly leashed.  It would not get its answers by wringing them out like some kind of brute.</p>
<p>Foreigners were not so readily welcomed in the grand palace, no, but this one did not seem hostile—on the contrary, they seemed deeply excited to see it, which was odd—and they had not yet been killed by the guards for intruding, so...?</p>
<p>Actually.  It did not even know if there were guards still left in the palace.  Which was a ridiculous thought to have, as the palace would never just be abandoned, and if there was royalty living within then surely there must also be guards.  Was this strange foreigner a guard?  It would explain their knowledge of the palace's inner halls, but not their lack of uniform.</p>
<p>So many questions...  It had still yet to find its arms and armor, despite looking intently for them.  It knew magic, and its gambeson afforded at least some protection, but it felt incomplete without its armaments.</p>
<p>The strange foreigner lead it to the main gardens of the palace, whereupon a veritable city of tents met its luminous eyes.  To say it was distressed by the sight would be a half-truth.  It knew not what lie within those tents.  But it also knew not what had happened to its countrymen.</p>
<p>If some of them were inside the garden city then perhaps it had not failed.  Perhaps it had not broken the covenant, nor had its mother.  Perhaps something else had happened to the Queendom that it would need to resolve first before it could resume its duties in the field.</p>
<p>Yes.  That must be the case.  It could still serve its people.  It could still fulfill its purpose.</p>
<p>Then the foreigner gave a shout, and some more rapid words, and its hopes were dashed as a throng of strange faces appeared one by one from the tents.</p>
<p>Ah.</p>
<p>There was more than one foreigner in the palace.  There were <em>many</em> foreigners in the palace.  All of which were now staring at it and its guide.</p>
<p>Many of which began rushing towards the two of them with expressions of glee and awe.</p>
<p>It threw out its senses immediately, but none among the throng of unfamiliar faces seemed bearing ill intent or powerful secrets.  Secure then, but not automatically safe.  The people—populated with various races it barely recognized, and various other races it did not know at all—spoke to it with strange tongues, examined its gambeson, examined its eternal countenance, questioned the stranger that had brought it out to them.</p>
<p>It did not understand.  It was missing something here.  It had to be.  There must be something else going on that it was unaware of.</p>
<p>Who were all these people?  What were they doing here?  Where was the royal family?  Where was <em>its</em> family?</p>
<p>
  <em>What exactly had happened while it was gone?</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Prince Nobody is made with the following resources: the Statuesque race from <a href="https://www.genfantasypress.com/get-the-compendium">The Compendium of Forgotten Secrets - Awakening</a> (which has an abridged version available for free if you can't afford it), the <a href="https://www.dmsguild.com/product/289205/Half-Dragon-player-race?src=by_author_of_product&amp;filters=0_0_45463_0_0_0_0_0">Half-Dragon</a> player race (which Nobody does not have, mechanically speaking, but is what the character was before becoming Statuesque), Reddit user BLTurn's <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/UnearthedArcana/comments/ffwvw7/background_preserved/">Preserved</a> background, and the Oath of the Watchers, which was canonized in Tasha's Cauldron of Everything yesterday.  Additionally, Prince Nobody is heavily inspired by the character of the Pure Vessel/Hollow Knight from the game, <em>Hollow Knight.</em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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